


Thursday Evening

by rufeepeach



Series: Time Of Day [12]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Time of Day 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr Gold comes home to a very familiar and yet utterly new sight in his kitchen. He expresses how much he appreciates Belle cleaning his floors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thursday Evening

His front door is locked; the house should be empty.  
  
But he can hear something coming from within, something that sounds an awful lot like someone humming to themselves. A musical burglar, perhaps? He clutches his cane with a tighter grip as he closes the door behind him as quietly as possible, and follows the voice deeper into his home, treading as lightly as his bad leg will allow, until he reaches the kitchen.  
  
Belle is knelt on the kitchen floor, cloth in hand, scrubbing decades’ worth of dirt from the floor and humming something under her breath.  
  
\---  
  
 _She kneels on the floor of the kitchen, scrubs the slabs with a damp rag and a metal bucket full of warm, soapy water. She thinks she’s alone, that he is spinning or in his work room. She doesn’t see him in the doorway, just out of sight, watching her every move.  
  
He is transfixed: her movements are methodical and smooth, as she sweeps out in long arcs, leaves a trail of shining wet stone in her wake, and refreshes the cloth every seven sweeps, her delicate fingers firm as they squeeze out the dirty water and plunge back into the bucket. Her hair is pinned back, tumbling down her back in neat, dark ringlets, her dress protected by a cushion beneath her knees - ingenious, that - which elevates her from the wet floor.  
  
The fabric, soft and powder-blue, shapes the curve of her ass so perfectly, rucked up around the backs of her knees to expose her smooth calves, the little dimples of her ankles in their delicate silver-white heels. Just seeing this demure trace of bare skin is almost too much for him, and it is all the worse for its innocence; for the fact that she has no idea what she does to him.  
  
He watches her for minutes or hours, desperate to come up behind her, to announce his presence with his hands on those soft hips, his growing erection flush against that pert little ass, his arms wrapped around her middle to cup her breasts. The breath would rush from her in surprise, and she would laugh, halfheartedly bat him away.   
  
He would only hold on tighter, grind his hips against her, replace her giggles with moans of pleasure, her attempts to get back to work with desperation to have him closer.  
  
The Belle in his mind wants him to touch her as badly as he craves her body under his fingertips and tongue.   
  
But the Belle in his mind and the one currently on her knees, scrubbing his floor, are two entirely different creatures. For all her smiles, her apparent acceptance of her fate, of his attempts to ease her mind and make this her home, it is a far leap from not running screaming from his face to wanting his sick, diseased, inhuman hide against her pale and perfect skin.  
  
So he stands in the doorway a moment longer, and simply watches._  
  
\---  
  
The memory hits him with the force of a ten-tonne anvil, and it takes a moment for him to disentangle the two images: the Belle who was his maid, with chestnut ringlets and long blue skirts, and the Belle who is his lover, with her swathes of straight dark hair soft and shimmering around her face, clad in just her black lace lingerie and his favourite of her shoes: her patent-leather black stilettos.  
  
It’s so familiar: her cleaning his floors, on her hands and knees, and him in the doorway, watching her, that he feels his heart squeeze.  
  
“Your floors,” she says, presently - and how did she know he was there? He had been so quiet - “Are _filthy_.”  
  
“Are you offering to be my maid, dearie?” he asks, and his voice is so light that even he barely hears the undertone, the weight of shared and lost history on his words, “I believe we could find you a lovely little apron. Perhaps a feather duster?”  
  
She looks around at him over her shoulder, tosses her sheets of chocolate hair and raises an eyebrow, “Another fantasy, Rum?” she giggles, “French maid a turn-on?”  
  
“I’m doing alright as it is,” he murmurs, and hears her throaty little chuckle, “Jeans wouldn’t suffice for impromptu cleaning, pet?”  
  
“Didn’t want to get them wet,” she replies, going back to her work, “I also thought I’d surprise you.”  
  
“You snuck in the back.” It isn’t a question.  
  
“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked.” She retorts, shifting back toward him as she works the next section of floor. His eyes are fixed on the contrast between her black lace panties - shorts, just about - and the creamy, soft skin they are supposed to cover. And she knows it, little minx, and arches her back just a little, catlike.   
  
He groans, impossibly hard already just from the sight of her and the onslaught of his imagination, from the history of this and the years and years of repressed desire which even now, months into their affair, he has not managed to overcome.  
  
“I didn’t.” He points out, as he steps forwards, bends down to run his hand down her spine as she makes another arc with her cloth. She wriggles appreciatively, arches into his hand, and he chuckles as he does it again.  
  
“Well, then you shouldn’t have locks that are so easy to pick,” she points out, reasonably, as his hand strays lower and traces the curve of her ass, and her voice is a little tiny bit strained, her hair covering the blush staining her cheeks.  
  
“Hmmm,” he isn’t so sure about that: he’s fine with her breaking in so long as her clothing is gone at the door, “So why are you so concerned about my floors, pet?”  
  
“I walk on them barefoot more often than not,” she looks up at him, all raised eyebrows and innocent smile, “I’d like not to leave filthier than I arrived.” Her little grin, the teasingly oblivious note to her voice, are a challenge: she is the dirtiest girl he’s ever met, and he does his best to encourage that trait.  
  
“Oh, I’ll show you filthy,” he growls, and pulls his hand from where it was caressing her backside away from her. He spanks her once, lightly, more on sheer impulse than for any other reason, and her pleased little squeal is a delicious reward.  
  
He stands up straight, puts one hand on the table for support, and reaches out with his cane to gently brush up over her buttocks to the waistband of her panties. She shivers at the cool metal on her skin, and he smirks, hooking the handle under the elastic and pulling, dragging the lace down and baring her to his sight. He tugs the lace as far as he can, and she raises her knees and then her feet to help him to slide them off over her stilettos. He raises his cane and lets them fall down to his hand, and pockets them quickly.  
  
She is completely still, quivering all over, her hand squeezing her cloth the only indication of the effect he has on her.  
  
He runs the side of the handle over her backside slowly, dragging out the sensation of the cold brass against her soft flesh, and she yelps as he suddenly slips it under, the tip pressing against her centre and slowly pulling through the wetness there. His mouth goes dry as she agitates herself against the cold metal, hips shifting and bucking as the cane catches her entrance and dips inside for just a moment.  
  
Her head is bowed and he cannot see her face, but he can hear her whimpering cries increasing in pitch as he repeats the motion, dragging across her clit and the lips of her pussy as she wriggles against it, trying desperately to gain more friction where she needs it most.  
  
He cannot stand it: his hand reaches almost of its own accord to unzip his flies and take his cock in hand, his control frayed enough already just by the sight of her on her knees in her underwear, moaning and aching for him. His cane leaves her, and he waits for her to whine in protest, to toss her hair back and glare at him, before he takes the handle in his mouth and cleans it of her juices as she watches.  
  
She makes a mewling little moan, her lush lips parted as if she cannot believe her eyes. He just smirks, and considers his next move.  
  
If he were still Rumpelstiltskin, he would kneel down behind her, take her from behind on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor.   
  
But his leg will not survive that, and so he creates a rather lovely plan B: he leans down and catches her about the waist, hauls her to her feet, grateful when she scrabbles to help and pushes herself up. They end up with her back flush against his front, both of them standing.  
  
She tries to turn in his arms, but he splays his hands on her stomach and holds her against him, keeps her still.  
  
“I like the heels, dear,” he murmurs, presses a kiss to her bare shoulder and nuzzles her neck affectionately. He knows how she loves it when he holds her close, and does it so rarely simply because the feeling is mutual. But holding her like this is too close, too loving, and too damn tempting. She makes him happy enough as it is just by breathing, smiling at him, being close enough for him to touch. If he holds her still for too long he will never be able to let go: he’ll admit something he shouldn’t, and suddenly the Curse will notice their little eye of the storm and rip them apart.  
  
He loves her too much to risk that.  
  
So he holds her for only a moment, before his hands spread out to cup the curve of her waist so he can lead her with him as they stumble back - him without his cane, her in her ridiculous heels - and land on his kitchen chair, with her on his lap and her backside pressed against his growing erection.  
  
He can’t help it: he nuzzles her again, and she practically purrs in pleasure.  
  
It’s a Thursday, and they aren’t supposed to see each other until Saturday. But then, this week he saw her Tuesday instead of Wednesday, and they’ve never been very good at keeping to those rules they set, and it’s getting more and more difficult to pretend that this is nothing but sex and light conversation.   
  
It’s the memory that sealed it.  
  
She only dyed her hair back its old colour perhaps a month back - surprised him with it, and a new blue summer dress, and she was _herself_ again and their resulting encounter had been softer and sweeter, more tender, than it’d ever been when she was blonde - but to have her on her knees on the floor, cleaning as she had in the old world, and to watch her from the doorway… but know that this time, this time he could let her know he was there, he could touch her and taste her and show her how much he wanted her…  
  
He can’t help but want to be closer, to want to step past Mr Gold and Isabelle French and reach Rumpelstiltskin and his Belle, to hold her so tight against her that she can never leave again, never fade away.  
  
She snuggles in affectionately to his chest, turns on his lap so she is sideways on and can bury her face in the side of his neck, and he strokes her back with his hand, soothing and sweet rather than teasing, his hand on her knees holding her secure rather than searching for her pleasure.  
  
He is still hard, desperate for her, and he knows she can feel him pressing against her thigh. But for a moment, that doesn’t matter at all: what matters is that they are together, curled in so tight that they might merge into one person, and that he hasn’t felt happier in decades.  
  
Which is why it has to end.  
  
He is so close, so very close, to whispering his love for her into the smooth, soft waves of her hair. To kissing every inch of her he can reach and murmuring devotion into every new sliver of skin.  
  
But to do so would be to tempt fate, to ask the Curse to do its worst, and what they have now is still so much better than what befalls happy couples in this town.   
  
So instead he growls into her skin, grabs her roughly by her waist and spins her to face him, so she is straddling him on his kitchen chair. She gets the idea immediately, giggles and leans down to kiss him deep and slow as she crosses her ankles behind the back, so her naked pussy is pressed right against him, so he could be inside her with just a thrust of his hips.  
  
“Go on,” she murmurs, moving her lips from his and along his cheek, up to nibble on the spot on his jaw, the sensitive little place she found that makes him groan and shiver, “Fuck me, I know you want to…” she wriggles her hips, so his erection shifts against her, teases herself with his cock, “I can feel it.”  
  
His Belle in the old world, his maid in her demure little white heels, would never say such things. Or perhaps she would have, if given the chance, and one day he will ask her. But the Belle that is here, the one in her black lacy bra and straddling his lap, knows just what to say to snap him back to the present and shut off his brain. He growls into her ear as he thrusts up inside her, hard, “Too bloody right.”  
  
She gives a delighted little cry and pulls back to meet his mouth with hers, kisses him so deeply he feels they may meld into one person, his lips working against hers as his tongue explores and plunders her mouth. She gasps and whimpers into his lips as he sets up a deep, punishing rhythm, as his hand comes to brush her clit with every upstroke.   
  
He moves his mouth down, over her chin, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat.  He scrapes his teeth against her collarbone as she throws her head back and moans deep in her throat. He soothes the bites with his tongue as he moves down and down, and finally takes her nipple in his mouth, sucking and laving the hard bud through the lace of her bra.  
  
Her hands tangle in his hair, nails scratching his scalp and he groans and tugs at her breast with his teeth. She is arching against him, slamming down to meet every snap of his hips, and he is so deep inside her that he can hardly see for stars. She is sweeter than heaven and hotter than hell, and he can feel her whole body trembling, knows she is so very, very close.  
  
He leans up to her ear, murmurs, “Come for me,” he considers a moment, uses all he has left of his clouded and addled mind, adds, “My filthy girl, come hard, come now,” for emphasis: they have come too close to lovemaking and devotion this evening, and he needs to inject some element of meaningless fucking into the atmosphere.  
  
She obeys his command, clenches around him, impossibly tight and screaming as his thrusts become jerky and erratic, and her climax spurs on his own and he pounds into her spasming body, racing for his own release.  
  
All it takes is the sight of her as she comes down, as she looks into his eyes with that warm and sated smile, and he is undone. He thrusts up hard and fast, and comes hard inside her, hands straying to her hips to hold her in place as he rides out his orgasm.  
  
They are finally left sprawled against each other, her arms and legs wrapped around him loosely, enough daylight between them that he doesn’t feel afraid of saying something he can’t take back, something powerful and awful and true that could destroy everything.  
  
And after a moment, her hands untangle from his hair and he slips out of her, and she stands, drawing him up with her.   
  
She crouches down as he sorts himself out, and pulls a sundress from under the table, pulls it over her head and smiles. She has barely a hair out of place, and if it weren’t for the small bulge of her black lace panties in his pocket and the swollen redness of her lips, no one at all would know that he just ravished her on a kitchen chair.  
  
“Aren’t you glad I’m a neat freak?” she beams up at him, runs a hand to smooth imaginary errant strands of hair.  
  
“Come and clean up any time you like, dear,” he smiles, his voice a little huskier than usual.  
  
“Clothing optional?” she giggles, leaning up to press a quick, familiar and utterly domestic kiss to his lips. It is somehow the most wonderful thing she’s done since he found her here, and his heart gives another painful tug.  
  
He pulls her against him, kisses her rough and deep for just a moment, and then pulls back to leer at her, “Indeed: discouraged in fact.”  
  
“Is that so?” she laughs, and wriggles from his grasp, “I’m supposed to be running errands. I’d better go.”  
  
He nods, lets her go, and she practically dances out of his kitchen. He is left to stare after her, and if it weren’t for all that they’ve done in Storybrooke, if it weren’t for the reassuring soft lump of her underwear in his pocket or the newly-cleaned patches of his kitchen floor, he’d think her a sprite or a vision, another of his dreams from the castle, after he’d become convinced that she was lost forever.  
  
There is something new, this time, some deep and ancient uneasiness in his stomach, as as he sits down on the kitchen chair once more and buries his face in his hands  
  
For the first time since they started this affair, he realises, he had felt he was making love to _Belle_ , the princess who became his maid, the girl he loved so much and lost so easily, who turned the Dark One into plain old Rumpelstiltskin once more. He had looked past the little plaything he Mr Gold secretly delighted in and seen his True Love, and felt a true echo of the love and longing and guilt he has repressed for so very long.  
  
He needs the Curse to break pretty damn soon, before he says or does something he’ll regret.


End file.
